The world today is cold and I am warm.
It’s not appropriate to vent my rage.
All long for spring – alone I covet storm.
I force myself to face this empty page.

The rags of fog we saw among the trees
appeared as banks of snow to me alone.
So why am I surprised at my unease?
How come I’m not accustomed to the stone
of brilliant solitude that beams within,
and casts my ego as a silhouette
of otherness, a pattern played on skin,
a mark of quarrel dark and intimate?

I harbor light a bushel cannot hide.
I’ll take me to my room. I’ll stay inside.